When Things Go to Hell
by Saloma-Kiwi
Summary: Hackett gives Shepard access to an inter-species counter-strike force to take the pressure off the Normandy for smaller missions during ME3. It's bad enough packing Alliance soldiers into a small space-how can an inter-species military force hope to stop arguing long enough to fulfill a mission? Follows some Shepard and introduces the force based on multiplayer gameplay. OCs.
1. Good News

**[Comm Room of the ****_Normandy_****; 0900 hours]**

"Admiral." Shepard folded her hands neatly behind her as Hackett's form flickered to life.

"Commander, we have some good news for you."

A smile did not quite touch her lips, but the lines did smooth from her forehead. "Glad to hear it, Admiral—we haven't gotten nearly enough in this war."

"No we haven't—but I'm pleased to tell you that we won't need to send you off on as many Alliance recon missions. In fact, should you need any recon done yourself, we have a team ready for you to dispatch."

The furrows returned to Shepard's brow. "How? I thought our forces were tangled up on earth and securing what strategic points we can."

Hackett inclined his head. "True, but thanks to the diplomatic alliances you've forged, some of the other armies have donated a few soldiers to our cause; we've been able to form a select, small interspecies counter-strike task forces to tangle with the Reapers, run recon, make tech pickups, data mine—whatever we need. I'll put you in contact with one of these teams in particular; they're constantly on the move, so location of the assigned task won't be a problem."

Shepard considered it. "It'll free up time for our larger missions, take a load off my people."

"That's the plan."

"Sounds good. What kind of specialists am I looking at?"

"I'll forward the dossiers—a few N7s, turian, drell, asari, salarian, quarian… we expect to add a few more as reinforcements are available. One of the N7s graduated the same time you did—Lieutenant Mary Neil."

That did prompt a slight smile. "Sif's still kicking?"

"Indeed. Let them know what you need, Shepard, and they'll see it done."

"Thank you, Admiral."

"Hackett out."

_To: Shepard, Commander_

_From: Hackett, Admiral _

_Subject: REQUESTED DOSSIERS_

_N7 Troops Deployed (__Full service records attached__):_

_Mark Antony, Marine Master Sergeant _

_Mary Neil, Navy First Lieutenant – "Sif"_

_Tyler Nilson, Navy Service Chief, Sentinel Training – "Tenison"_

_Emily Charlotte, Navy Operations Chief, Sentinel Training – "Bronte"_

_Kathy Maynard, Marine Second Lieutenant Infiltration Specialist – "M."_

_Carmine Rogers, Marine Chief Engineer_

_Nora Demeter, Marine Second Lieutenant, Adept Training_

_Asari Reinforcements:_

_Tamara Diona – Justicar, Vanguard specialty; Joined of her own volition_

_Turian Reinforcements (__Full service record forwarded from Hierarchy__):_

_Victron Atarus, Major, Infantry_

_Quarian Reinforcements (Full service record forwarded from Admiralty Board):_

_Delror vas Sirtre, Marine Infiltrator _

_Salarian Reinforcements (__Unclassified portions of STG service attached__):_

_Al-Zeran, former STG Engineer_

_Drell Reinforcements (__Forwarded letter from the Hanar__):_

_Ardel Theseus, Assassin, Adept_

_Mercenary Reinforcements (I'm sure Aria already contacted you):_

_Simon Condor, Talon Engineer_

_Please use this resource as necessary, Commander. They are up for anything you throw at them. _


	2. Ten Soldiers in a Tin Can

**[Compound, Location Classified; 1600 hours]**

"Atarus, it'll never work."

The turian glowered. "Lieutenant, I suggest you stand down—_I_ have been put in charge of this mission, and—"

"I cannot, in good conscience, follow that order!"

"Lieutenant, if you interrup—"

"Find someone else for that mission tomorrow; I won't be there." The soldier stalked off to the other end of the compound, and the door slid shut behind her, leaving the turian fuming in her wake. A drell smirked at him from his place leaning on the wall.

"I told you she would never go for it, Victron."

Victron Atarus, longtime soldier in the turian military, turned his glare. "And you wonder why I can't stand dealing with humans."

Ardel Theseus, drell assassin, generously lent to the cause by the hanar, shrugged. "Sif will do as she pleases; if she thinks it's a bad call, she is not afraid to try to save lives and resources by saying so."

"She's a damn human without enough discipline." He stalked to the far end of the compound they were currently calling home base. He waved a taloned hand at the drell. "See if Al-Zeran can talk some sense into the lieutenant. I need her firepower."

"Is that an order, Atarus?" His mouth quirked.

Victron froze and locked the assassin under a steely, green gaze. "Do I need to make it one, Theseus?"

A dry chuckle escaped his throat. "No."

"Good." He exited briskly.

Ardel shook his head, pressing his way around the table and chairs to the door through which Sif had disappeared. Finding the salarian would not be difficult, hardly even worthy of a true search, as there were only four rooms to the compound, if one counted the hangar. It consisted only of said hangar, built for only a single shuttle, the makeshift kitchen/dining area he had just exited (often used for briefing and debriefing, because it housed the most chairs), a sitting area/armory that Victron had disappeared into, and the team quarters he entered now.

Rows of narrow bunks were stacked along the wall; Mary 'Sif' Neil sat on the edge of hers, cleaning her gauntlets with more force than necessary, not bothering to glance up when he entered. Tamara Diona—an asari Justicar that had joined them—and Carmine Rogers, N7 engineer, also occupied their bunks, the former either meditating or sleeping, and the latter most certainly deep in slumber, preparing for tonight's watch. Ardel found Al-Zeran at the table and chairs situated between the bunks and personal lockers; there was hardly any room to maneuver between the double-stacked cots or around the little table itself, particularly with anyone seated there. The salarian—former STG—appeared to have the inner workings of his shotgun spread across the table, fingers working quickly to fiddle with the mechanisms. Another of the N7 operatives was seated across from him, watching with no small intrest—a sentinel the team simply called Tenison (a play on "Tennyson," a very old earth poet, as Ardel understood, just as his counterpart was called "Bronte" for an old human novelist, but exactly _why_, he was not aware).

Al-Zeran noticed his approach immediately. "Aware of altercation. No interest in alleviating right now."

When he wasn't busy, the salarian could hold up a more complete conversation—really.

"I'll come back later, then."

"Fine." His fingers twitched along the metal in his hands. "Ah!" He angled the piece for Tenison to see. "Can link upgrade here, even when not designed for it."

The human's face brightened. "Excellent!"

Ardel decided to make his way to the hangar, rather than crossing Victron at the armory. Someone else was welcome to deliver the news of delay.

"Bloody turian's gone off his head." The mercenary had left his helmet somewhere, but loitered in full armor just inside the hangar. "Is Sif causing trouble again?"

"What gives you that idea, Simon?" He couldn't keep the amusement from his voice.

"Atarus nearly bit my head clean off as soon as he entered the armory." The Brit shrugged. His accent was watered down from years of travel, but the drell easily distinguished it from the other humans on the squad. "The only person who gets him that tetchy is the lieutenant."

His translator always hiccupped on that one. "Lef-tenant." Apparently humans were flexible about different pronunciations of words.

"They're both damn bosh'tets," drifted a voice from somewhere beneath the transport ship. Bickering like children."

Ardel chuckled. "Tell them that, if you like."

Delror rolled out of the crawlspace, the green of his suit dusty, a little lubrication fluid smudged on his mask. "That's a job for someone else; I'm not stumbling into the crossfire."

"Best for everyone involved to mind our own business until it blows over," Simon agreed. "I left M and Bronte with him—maybe they can talk him down."

"M can't talk anyone out of anything!" Delror protested. "Keelah—what were you thinking?"

"Her infiltration technique usually requires not needing to talk her way out of it," Ardel agreed.

Simon folded his arms. "I was thinking I didn't want to deal with a hot-headed turian."

"There's a better chance of Al-Zeran getting to Sif, no matter how busy he is," the drell muttered.

"We'd better hope it's soon. I don't want to be around if Bronte and M end up prying his suit."

Simon cocked his head in a gesture that Delror recognized as a question—similar to the body language his people had to rely on. "So to speak… it's like… humans say 'get under the skin'… to annoy, to bother."

"Mm. I don't want to be around when things go to Hell, in any case. Ten humans in an enclosed space is bad enough, but with all our differences… no offense to either of you."

Ardel shook his head "None taken. The galaxy has already 'gone to Hell.' I would rather not consider what might be if the same happens to our compound."

"They'd better learn to get along quick. If command sends more reinforcements and we're at each other's…"

"Throats," Simon supplied.

"Thank you. We might tear each other apart before we can make a dent in the Reaper forces. Tensions are high, and diplomacy is fragile enough as it is."

"Think about the damage if they sent a krogan next."

"Keep your damn mouth shut."


	3. Calm-Storm and Other Cliches

**[Team Quarters - Compound, Location Classified; 1700 hours]**

Sif knew it was the salarian without looking up from her gleaming gauntlets—as much as black ampullate-kevlar weave _could_ gleam, anyway. He had a soft, dry scent that she used to associate with arid landscapes, and a presence that reeked of highly-contained energy, not unlike water that, when the container was breeched, would spread and fill the space around it with unrestrained vigor.

"What?" she grunted when he showed no sign of leaving.

"Do you really have to be told the orders came directly from Commander Shepard to find reason to obey them?"

The gauntlet nearly slipped from her fingers.

"Foolish," Al-Zeran confirmed.

"_Shepard?_" she managed at last.

The salarian placed his hands in the pockets of his coat, silent.

"But… it's an unnecessary risk. Someone won't come out alive. It doesn't make sense. I told Atarus as much."

"The whole team heard you tell Atarus!" he snapped. "You obey orders because you must trust that someone knows what risks are necessary, because someone knows the skills of the unit and will make use of them in a way that assures we will not lose more men than we must."

"I—"

"Surprised you made it into the elite military program at all, when you're so recklessly disobedient."

Sif felt her cheeks flush. "I—"

"Or is it just this unit?" Al-Zeran pressed. "Problem with other species? Problem with higher-ranking turian giving orders on this mission?"

"I don't—"

"Then make sure you're on the field defending your team tomorrow." His dark eyes bored into hers. It was disorienting to be able to see herself reflected in them, an angry flush in her cheeks, dark hair a mess, blue eyes unfocused.

She stood, but the salarian did not give her so much as a step. "I will apologize to the major."

Al-Zeran inclined his head. "Good." He remained a moment longer, Sif standing her ground, knowing she could not move either direction without touching the salarian at this distance—but he returned to the table with a nod, where his shotgun, now pieced back together, still lay.

She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth. "Hey." He turned. "Thanks." Sif gave him half a smile.

The salarian nodded.

**[Armory – Compound, Location Classified, 1700 hours]**

"But what does the M stand for?" Victron's whole frame emanated tension, but Bronte hoped he'd stay distracted.

The infiltrator shrugged, brown hair falling over her shoulders. "It's not really the middle initial—my middle name is Laura."

Bronte nodded. "So—Kathy Laura, then, not Kathy 'M.'"

"Yes. M is for… mouse, Mantis," she lifted the rifle she was cleaning, "Maynard, my surname… whatever anyone wants. They all called me something different during training, but most of them started with M, so that's what stuck."

Victron's musing hum was still edged by the threatening range of his sub-vocals, if the hair prickling on the back of the humans' necks was any indication. "Mouse—the pests smaller than rats?"

"Yes; they used that name because I'm short for a human, and good at remaining undetected. Mantis for my rifle, but it's an insect good at blending in with its environment, too."

"Not exactly creative, are they? I've never understood the point of giving yourself another name—against family and clan."

"It's a really old human thing." Bronte shrugged. "But you don't give yourself the name, exactly; other people kind of give it to you, especially in military service. Think of it… as a new name for your new family. You don't lose the old one."

"It's much more common with soldiers than civilians," M agreed. "You might call it a centuries-old tradition."

"You usually get it for your skills or personality or habits that your fellow recruits notice. Now my real name is Emily Charlotte—no joke." The look in Victron's eyes told her the joke was lost on him anyway. "I used to sneak as many books through the system onto my datapad as I could fit, and a couple real, bound ones, too, so—"

"What do you mean 'used to?'" sniggered M.

The sentinel crossed her arms. "And now it's not a secret. Anyway—Charlotte and Emily are names of two famous novelists from about 300 years ago on Earth. Their surname was Bronte—they were sisters—and now I have the name you hear today."

"What about your counter-part?" asked the turian.

"Ah, the way Tenison got his name is actually a pretty funny story. You see, his name is Tyler Nilson—"

"Major!"

The N7s tensed as Sif strode into the armory, her back straight, head high. Victron pressed his mandibles close to his face, a gesture not unlike human jaw-clenching, they had observed.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" The distinct growl had returned.

"I wish to apologize, sir. I will accompany you tomorrow if you still require my services."

The turian's brow-plates raised in surprise, but his voice betrayed no emotion. "Can you obey the orders given?"

"Of course I can!" _There_ was the Sif they had been expecting. "I was being an idiot, but that doesn't mean you're getting any more apologies, Atarus."

The major grunted. "As long as you're there following orders, I don't really give a damn."

"Good to know."

But he waved her off. "Dismissed."

Sif rolled her eyes in a gesture Victron was slowly coming to realize was not very respectful as she retrieved her Typhoon machine gun from its rack and exited with a half-solute—now _that_ was disrespectful, no matter what military.

He returned his attention to his own rifle—a similar model to Sif's. "You were saying Bronte?" There was still an annoyed edge to his sub-harmonics, but it was softened by the relief of the promise of a full team the following day.

The humans immediately stopped attempting to silently communicate their unease, and the sentinel launched into her story with much more enthusiasm than was warranted. "Right—back when we were first recruited into the N7 program, there was a glitch in the datapad during roll-call the first day. Some of the letters of his name were missing—little splotches that the C.O. couldn't read, so he just read what was there. Tyler Nilson became T-e-N-i-s-o-n. Tenison. It wasn't until later that it became a reference to the old human poet, Alfred Lord Tennyson."

Victron shook his head, moving on to his pistol. "This makes less and less sense. M, I can understand—small, sneaky mouse or Mantis sniper rifle. Sif, damn hothead spirit of war from some dead human religion—annoying as Hell, but she _is_ good at killing things. But named for a clerical error?"

Bronte shrugged. "It stuck around because of a famous poem: _The Charge of the Light Brigade_. He earned his rank doing something similar—no officer training, just promoted to Service Chief in the field after an insane charge against some Blue Suns mercenaries that thought they could steal resources from one of our colonies. Most of the squad and colony militia died, but they held the colony until reinforcements arrived. Moved up to N7 training not long after."

The turian shook his head. "Humans are strange," Victron maintained.

The N7s laughed. "Maybe."


	4. Of Disasters and Packages

**[Cerberus Base, Etamis, Schwarzschild System – 1000 hours]**

The mission wasn't a complete disaster just yet. Sif and Victron were raining the usual Hell down on their enemies with their Typhoon machine guns while Ardel and Tamara pressed forward under a barrier toward their goal: a lost piece of Prothean technology.

Secretly, Victron hoped the damn thing was worth it. Cerberus had become much nastier recently, as far as he was concerned; the Reaper augmentation must be doing its job. If one more Phantom got close enough to take down his shields, he might consider himself nervous for the sake of the mission: two soldiers providing machine cover fire was barely enough to let the biotic team push forward to do their work. If that barrier fell, it was the end of the mission and the soldiers inside.

If Sif let herself feel anything but the weight and recoil of the gun in her hands, the jerk of her arm as her omni-blade caught the throat of a Phantom foolish enough to get in range, she might have been nervous for all of them; she was quite right in calling this a suicide run.

But there was still a chance they could make it out.

The assassin and the Justicar moved steadily to the compound under a thunderous hail of bullets, tears glistening at the edges of their eyes with the strain of holding a combined barrier. Fortunately, most of this hail came from behind them, aimed at Cerberus forces beyond. Step, step, step over the dry, brittle grass to the door of the dun-colored compound, blending into the landscape when viewed from above. Nearly there. They could not break formation until there was real cover; Ardel would sprint to the door with his barrier and bypass the lock while the cover fire continued. Tamara would fire a singularity where troops were clustered and cover him while the job was done; then, they would enter the compound together and extract the tech while Victron and Sif followed behind and kept the path to the shuttle pad clear.

A few more steps. Not long now.

The sickening hiss as Sif used her last thermal clip snapped her out of the battle-haze. She drew her Geth sub-mac just as three Cerberus troopers pressed the advantage and broke from cover to rush Ardel and Tamara head-on.

_Shit_.

"Atarus!" She hit the adrenaline spike function on her suit and did not glance back to see if he followed. The hormone rushed hot through her veins, giving her just a little more strength, a little more speed. A well-placed stream of compressed energy to the head of an advancing Phantom halted its progress (and biological functions) but did nothing to ease Sif's panic. A hail of bullets still suppressed enemies on Victron's side of the field, but six troopers were nearly upon the biotics. Ardel tossed a warp, but, weak from maintaining the barrier, it fizzled out, stunning a trooper for only a moment, long enough for Sif to dispatch him with a concussive shot. An attempt to scatter those remaining with her sub-mac had little effect.

"Hold! On my way!"

They did not respond verbally, but the drell and asari pressed their fingertips together, sending sparks down their hands to collect between them, drew them back in unison, and fired a combined burst of dark energy to scatter the troopers. Relief flooded in Sif's chest as she was able to pick the weakened soldiers off with her gun and decimate the nearest Centurion with her omni-blade for good measure.

Victron's voice crackled in her ear: 'Escort them to the doors; I'll cover as best I can, and follow behind as planned.'

"Acknowledged."

Two on the flank, easily dispatched. The allied forces were now within twenty feet of the door; at ten, they could break formation.

If not for the squad that moved to defend the entrance of the compound.

_Damn it all_.

Heavy fire on the barrier.

"Fine, we'll play it like that," Sif hissed, drawing a frag from the pouch at her waist; she pulled the pin and hurled it into their midst. A desperate cry of "grenade!" was not enough to save four troopers from being tossed like leaves in the resulting explosion, and three more from falling to Sif's submachine gun in the confusion. The rest were plowed beneath the turian's considerable aim and rather impeccable control over a machine gun at this distance. Not that the human was about to tell him so.

That wasn't so bad.

Another Phantom felled by a concussive shot and her omni-blade.

The heady rush of realizing they could make it surged through the soldier's veins as Ardel and Tamara broke the barrier to rush the door. The purple sheen of a personal barrier flowed along the drell's skin as he crouched by the door, omni-tool glowing while it interfaced with the door's controls. The asari rolled behind one of the Cerberus troops' abandoned shields, her own geth sub-mac at the ready, firing a singularity at the soldiers attempting to ambush Ardel's left flank, dispatching the clumsily floating forms with ease even as they cried out in alarm.

Excellent.

There was a resounding shatter as a blade met Sif's shields.

"Fuck."

She met the Phantom's second strike with her omni-blade, arm burning as she tangled her much shorter knife against the overhead strike. It did not take long to realize it simply could not be done. What she _could _do was hold long enough to take care of the enemy's barriers with her sub-mac. The Phantom was disciplined enough not to flinch, but a side-step and sweep of her omni-tool left it bleeding.

Or, it would have, if a sniper round had not pierced Sif's newly-regenerated shield and left her sprawling.

Her heart froze in her chest as the Phantom raised its sword again. A strangled cry as blue energy raced over its body, distorting blade and armor alike. A warp from the Justicar without a barrier was a death sentence. Sif attempted to shift, but a searing pain near her right hip dropped her back again. She turned her head, searching for the Nemesis, desperately hoping it did not come to finish the job.

A voice in her ear: 'Theseus, Diona—keep moving. Lieutenant, I assume you're breathing?'

The soldier took another shallow breath, ignoring the sting of shrapnel as best she could. "Yeah. Medi-gel's gone, though."

'Shouldn't have decided you could jump the shuttle and tangle with the dragoon yourself.'

"The look on your face was some funny shit, Major."

Her translator did not pick up the following grunt, but the fine sheen of sweat developing on Sif's forehead was enough to distract her. Hell if her death mask was coming off before the return trip on the shuttle. _Shit_, but it burned. She hoped somebody had enough field training to put her re-arranged intestines back in order. Justicar—the Justicar had probably picked up something in her centuries… but human anatomy… probably… something about medical study… whose dossier… Carmine? Engineering and… medical… could be…

A click and jingling beep as a cool, stinging pressure surrounded her wound. Victron. He knelt over her, mandibles pressed tight to his face, from what she could see through his visor. He removed his hand once her suit had accepted the full dose of medi-gel.

Sif hissed as she sat up, but the burn was at least bearable this time. The major wiped a trickle of blue blood from his white clan markings. "Guard the door. I'll follow the biotics as planned. Don't re-open the wound, and be ready for the mad dash out."

"Atarus—"

He raced to the door without another word.

"Damn it," she grunted. "Atarus!"

'You have your orders.' He disappeared into the compound as Sif took cover behind the barriers Tamara had vacated. The soldier gritted her teeth. "Damn turian."

**[Cerberus Base, Etamis, Schwarzschild System – 1037 hours]**

'Status!'

Ardel tilted his head. "The device is fortunately very portable." He terminated another trooper with two quick shots of his pistol, all biotic energy in his personal barrier. He shouldn't be smiling.

Responding Carnifex shots were close in his ear and earpiece. 'Status—distance, damn it!'

Tamara sent a wave of dark energy from her body to dispatch the four soldiers she had lured in close. Strain showed in the watering of her eyes. "Six meters from your position. On our way. Ready for run to shuttle."

Ardel had the flat, angular package tucked under one arm. Light materials, flat-black sheen, no idea as to its purpose.

'Move!' was Victron's answering grunt.

The drell caught Tamara's eye, and she moved into position on his six, covering their exit with a singularity.

'_Atlas!_' Sif's voice was edged with fatigue and a rising note of panic, even with the tinny quality of his earpiece. His translator didn't catch the major's answering string of curses.

'Rockets. Line up your shots. ETA ninety seconds.'

Ardel picked a charging Centurion off Victron's back as the turian tangled with a Nemesis he had ferreted out.

The muffled sound of an explosion outside the compound, amplified in his earpiece. The weight of the artifact under his arm. The recoil of his Phalanx. Sif's cough in his ear: 'Took out its rockets. Be careful. Lining up to take care of the anti-personnel. Difficult. Fire focused on me.' The rhythm of his footsteps in the race to the entrance of the compound, Victron at his one, Tamara on his six.

"I'll draw its fire." And Victron rolled from the door into cover. A shot from his Carnifex struck, did little damage to the armored machine, but caught its master's attention, and the spray of bullets pelted into the Cerberus shield with deafening force.

Sif propped herself on the concrete slab she had taken desperate cover behind and Ardel watched as the recoil of the launcher set the injured soldier back on her knees with a pump of the trigger. 'Defenses down. Rogers—get that shuttle over here.'

'Aye, Lieutenant. ETA eighty seconds,' came the engineer's voice.

"Double-time it, Chief!" Three shots from Victron's pistol cracked the Atlas' cockpit as it charged.

Ardel raced to Sif's position, halfway between the compound and the LZ. She gestured to the package as the drell crouched beside her. "That's it?"

The assassin shrugged. "It doesn't look like much."

Victron's voice in their ears: 'Make the run!'

As they counted three and surveyed the terrain, they saw Tamara detonate a warp in the Atlas' cockpit, blood splattering dark across the cracked, orange armor.

"Go!" And Ardel raced ahead, Sif a few steps behind, Geth sub-mac raised.

'ETA thirty seconds.'

Another squadron behind them, if the sounds of gunfire were any indication. The drell kept his dark eyes forward.

'Twenty.'

A bullet struck, and his barrier trembled.

'Ten.'

The grey-and-blue shuttle hovered in view, rapidly descending.

'Coming out hot!'

'Roger that, Major—pick it up.'

The door folded down to reveal the engineer in her favored tan and green camo. A flaming incendiary glided over his head; he heard it detonate as he leapt nimbly into the shuttle beside her, settling the package into an armored compartment even as his feet hit the floor.

Carmine's fingers flicked across her omni-tool. He faced the door in time to catch Sif's arm and help her into the shuttle, grunting with the effort.

"Shit," the soldier hissed, hand clutching her side.

A pale drone flickered into existence and headed straight for the small company pursuing Victron and Tamara. "Let's see how they like Alighieri." She pressed a Tempest into Ardel's hands. "Cover!" She slipped back into the cockpit.

He sent a spray of projectiles into the Cerberus company's midst. I did little more than slow them, and Victron's shields broke with a stomach-dropping sound, but the turian took a strong leap into the shuttle, narrowly avoiding Sif as she helped herself onto the nearest bench. Carmine's drone stunned several soldiers and more effectively drew fire as the drell continued his cover of Tamara as best he could; a surge of dark energy swept from the Justicar's personal barrier, propelling her leap.

"Go!"

But Victron need not have said; the door was already closing, Cerberus bullets beating the shuttle's shields as Carmine revved the engines, sending the turian, drell, and asari reeling, the human gracelessly flopping across her place on the bench, Ardel ending up with the major's torso in his lap and Tamara's elbow beneath his chin.

Sif pressed the helmet from her head, letting it roll carelessly to the floor, dark hair plastered to her forehead, color washed from her cheeks. "Next time," she grunted, "_three_ biotics, an infiltrator, and two soldiers. I don't care if we have to sit on each other's laps to make it happen."

"As soon as someone trusts you to make the calls, Lieutenant," was Victron's reply, rather ruined by his position tangled with the Justicar and the assassin.


	5. How to Keep and Let Go (A Shep Chapter)

**[Comm Room of the ****_Normandy_****; 1615 hours]**

"It's difficult."

Shepard lifted her head to find Garrus leaning against the wall opposite, each of them out of view of those in the War Room. "Letting things out of my hands at a time like this? Damn right."

"I know it won't make you feel better, but you have a knack for knowing what to… keep."

"You could've said it the other way, Garrus." The look in her eyes was almost amused. "I know. It's part of being a soldier—letting go. Seeing losses."

"That's not what we were talking about."

The commander shrugged. "Maybe it should be." She gestured to the door with her chin and exited to the War Room, nodding to the crewmembers she passed; he followed.

The gate guards were chatting as they stepped through the scanner. Something about Cerberus and ex-Alliance personnel; Garrus was more concerned with following Shepard's movements, but her rigid posture gave nothing away except the expected tension.

"Traynor." The commander gave her a nod as they passed.

They found one another side-by-side on the elevator, doors closed. Shepard did not select a destination. She let herself drop back against the wall with a sigh, rolling a kink out of her neck.

"Fancy a drink, Vakarian?"

He spread his mandibles in surprise. "Alliance duty regulations?" A trill of amusement in his sub-vocals.

"Don't apply to you, last I checked." She shrugged. "The Alliance owes me a couple drinks, anyway, and if it doesn't interfere with my ability to command, I think I'll collect."

He shrugged, grinning. "If you can't break all the rules at galaxy's end, when can you?"

"My point exactly." Shepard selected her quarters, and the elevator began to rise. "I still have some of that dextro wine you and Tali liked so much last time."

"Sounds good to me. Beer again for you?"

The commander shook her head as they stepped off the elevator. The lock on her door recognized her omni-tool's signature immediately and let them pass. "Something stronger. Thanks to Cerberus' upgrades; it won't make me sloppy if I'm careful about it."

She knelt beside the sofa and swiped her omni-tool along a panel. It slid open to reveal a makeshift liquor cabinet. Garrus shook his head as she selected a bottle of wine and one of whiskey.

"I'm just glad the Alliance didn't find it while I was grounded." A little grin that reminded the turian of the one she wore just before lobbing a grenade into the cracked cockpit of an Atlas spread across her features. "Some of this is pretty expensive."

"What, you couldn't exercise your 'I'm Commander Shepard' discount?" He watched as she produced and filled two glasses.

"I don't abuse my position to buy booze, Garrus."

The turian tilted his head. "Oh, don't you?"

Shepard chuckled, handing him his glass, filled with a sort of lavender-brown wine. "Ok, I try not to abuse my position to buy booze _often_."

"That's better."

They raised their glasses and drank, each settling on a sofa. The dextro wine was good, spicy with a tart edge, but Shepard just enjoyed the burn of the whiskey—she never did bother with making that particular purchase too expensive. The silence grew quickly heavy, uncomfortable.

"Mordin?" Garrus asked.

Shepard's hands tightened around her glass. "I understand why he did it, believe me."

Garrus shrugged. "That doesn't mean it hurts less."

She pressed her fingers to her temple, possibly fighting a developing headache; he'd seen Kaidan make the gesture often enough. "It's… not just that." She sighed, dropped her hand, and took another gulp from her glass. "There just comes a time when you run out of options, and Mordin… made peace with that. In a way I'm not sure I can."

The turian considered this a moment, mandibles pressed tight to his face. "What do you mean, Shepard?"

The commander shot the rest of her whiskey, and poured another glass. "When this is over. I want that kind of peace if it comes down to the wire and I have to make a decision that means I've run out of options for myself."

An uneasy chuckle. "Peaceful isn't a word I would ever associate with Mordin—"

"You didn't see him!" Two fingers on her forehead and a thumb at her temple again. "'Someone else might have gotten it wrong'—matter-of-fact. There was no other way, and he was just… fine. Good, even. When it comes down to it—I can't. I need options, even if there's the smallest chance of success, I'll take it."

"It's what makes you a good leader—you'll do the impossible and come out alive at the end, and make anyone else believe they can, too."

Shepard shook her head. "Only because I have the options. Once they run out, I panic."

"How do—"

"Because I've done it before, Garrus." Another emptying of her glass, focusing on the burn from her lips to her throat. She looked past him, focusing on the wall opposite. "When the Collectors destroyed the first _Normandy_, I had a choice: eject Joker's pod and save him, or try, and fail, to get there before the beam struck again. I ejected it and drifted away on the small chance someone could double-back and pick me up before I was swept in by planetary gravity. Another blast by the Collector beam and I struck some debris, drifting out over Alchera's surface. There comes a time when you just run out of options—that was mine: I knew as soon as I heard the hiss of my oxygen leak. So I panicked, grabbing for the breach, turning over—the darkness, the stars, the blue, freezing surface of that God-forsaken planet. Cold creeping into my skin—I didn't know if it was just the temperature outside my suit or the icy hand of death everyone talks about. I didn't stop until I didn't have the energy or the oxygen left to keep going."

"Shepard—"

"I'm not exactly looking forward to dying again if that's how I'm going to do it."

There was a nervous, concerned trill in Garrus' sub-vocals, but he knew no words for something like this—not that he'd been raised to discuss his feelings much at all. He finished his glass.

Shepard set her empty glass on the table before them with a dull thud.

"But I have to do it better this time, right? Practice makes perfect, I'm told. Go down with dignity and save the galaxy properly this time."

"Or you could avoid dying and leaving us to figure out what the hell to do without you."

That got a genuine, albeit dark, chuckle. "My time and my luck _will_ run out, Garrus, even if it's not at the end of this war. I like to believe there's always another way, but sometimes, there's only one. When I face that again, I want to be ready to do it right, ready to let go and stop worrying about my own life... really glad that someone else made it instead."

The turian placed his glass on the table.

Shepard's fingers were at both temples now. "Joker feels guilty for not leaving fast enough, but I know that in my last few seconds, I was more worried about _me_ than I was relieved that I'd done something decent with the final few minutes of my life."

He poured himself more wine.

The commander rolled her shoulder, then leaned forward, sliding her elbows to rest on her thighs, hands folded between her knees. "There's one more thing."

"Spirits, Shepard." Garrus downed half the glass. "Ok. I'm ready."

"What that happens, Garrus, I need someone to tell my team that it will be all right—that it wasn't just me doing impossible things. It was _them_. There's no one I trust more to do that than you."

He finished his glass. "I lied, Shepard—I wasn't ready for that." He set the glass on the table. "Look… I—what about Tali or Liara? Spirits, Joker has been around longest, Shepard, I—"

"I trust all of them, Garrus, but the best for this job is _you_. Liara has a lot going on, Tali will want time, and Joker doesn't exactly have a way with people. You're a leader, Garrus. You'll always be ready to do what needs to be done, even if you're not sure before it happens."

Discomfort resounded in his sub-harmonics. "I really—without—"

"I won't leave you high and dry—I promise, Garrus."

He raised his brow plates. "I don't think you can promise that, Shepard—you just got done telling me you'll be dead."

She nodded, shrugged. "I'll just be watching _your_ six for a change."

That earned a chuckle. "Sure you won't get bored?"

"Nah. I expect you to get into sufficient trouble for me."

"I'll see what I can do, but if the Reapers are long gone by the time you die, I think you might get tired of the comparatively petty troubles I get into."

Shepard laughed. "It'll be a good break. Just get into _some_ trouble for me?" She offered her hand.

He smiled in spite of the weight that lay behind her light words. "You do realize it's my job to make sure that doesn't happen to you."

"Maybe so, but just in case. Humor me, Garrus."

He placed his taloned hand in hers. "I promise. Stay on my six, even if it's not quite what you're used to?"

They shook on it. "I promise, Vakarian."


	6. Irretrievable

Carmine Rogers had always considered herself something of a brawler. True, she didn't charge in headfirst with a shotgun, nor could she bowl her opponents over with a rush of biotic energy, but more than one Cerberus lackey found out that a drone was bad news: it meant a painful distraction while its engineer rushed forward, heavy Mattock rifle raised, and engaged in hand-to-hand that, really, they would do better to avoid.

But not Reaper abominations; those cobbled-together, snarling blights on the universe could stay on the other side of the battlefield as far as she was concerned: husks, marauders, cannibals, brutes, banshees—all of them. Banshees. Especially banshees—good God.

Stuck in the middle of some rain-drenched planet, ankle deep in mud, surrounded on all sides by Reaper forces (who, unfortunately, liked nothing better than an up-close-and-personal charge), this was a problem.

Rain streaked and bubbled over her helmet's visor, blurring her view of a husk that lunged for her throat—Carmine struck it with the butt of her rifle, splattering skull and flesh and fluids toward the blur that was her drone. Poor little Alighieri kept shorting out in this shit. If she got back to base, she'd make sure she tinkered with his programming to better account for hellish rain. 'If' was the key word. _If if if if if if if—_each husk crumpling to the ground, gurgling cries of cannibals as her targeting systems did their work.

She lost sight of Delror and Tamara ages ago. She ignited two husks with the flare of her omni-blade, and Carmine was grateful her helmet would filter the scent of melting flesh. Not that husks probably smelled pleasant in the first place, but—

Her stomach dropped. She thrust her arm forward, squelching through the mud, sloshing sideways, keeping her Mattock well above her body, susceptible to the rain, but well out of the hazard of the mud. Reflex, really—mud wouldn't jam it, but a slippery heat-sink was trouble, and a muddy gun was a real bitch to clean.

The hand that remained buried in the mud caught a tremble through the earth; the readout on her visor told her it was a brute, barreling straight for her.

Oh, Hell.

She ought to just call the shuttle pilot and ask for pickup because this mission was a lost cause, whatever the original goal. But for the life of her, brute barreling ahead, the mud buying her a few seconds as it slipped and scrambled (rather comically, if husks weren't rushing, too, and if it didn't look like her grave would be a sopping wet one, forgotten on some godforsaken rock in Reaper-occupied space), she could not remember who piloted the shuttle. If she wasn't piloting, it was usually Delror, but the quarian was on the ground team, so who-?

She fired thee sots into the nearest husk, reactivating Alighieri as she rolled, keeping the rifle out of the mud as much as possible, praying to anything and everything that—

It did—the brute diverted its attention to the drone, for now. Carmine lay still, allowing the husks to come in close, and—_zap!_ A thin line of electricity jumped from her omni-tool to the first husk—second—third—fourth! And thank the gods it didn't take advantage of the rain to backfire.

_Halle-fuckin'-luiah._

A shot struck her shields and dropped, sizzling, into the mud. She leapt to her feet (slipping and wiggling to regain balance the whole way—good thing no one was there to see that) just in time to watch Alighieri wink out again. The brute whirled on her, suddenly too close for comfort; she found herself diving away as three more shots struck her shield, but through the rain and the mud now streaking her visor, she could not find the culprit.

Too slow—the brute's claw caught her and she skidded through the mud, gasping for breath. Carmine realized as she pressed herself to a standing position that she was empty-handed.

Shit, if she ever got out of this, she'd share her contraband chocolate with Sif—not that she liked Sif; Sif was an asshole. But, Carmine knew the lieutenant liked chocolate, and sharing though she didn't like Sif had to be worth some points with whatever gods existed, and Carmine needed some.

She still had her Phalanx, covered in mud though it was—that was _something_. And she had her breath back in time for a dead sprint into a cannibal's cover; a couple shots made it hers. A rock, maybe? Didn't matter; the brute had lost sight of her for now.

"Delror—Tamara—anybody! Location! What's your status?"

Her only reply was a silent line, pouring rain, and metallic grunts of Reaper forces.

"Shit. Diona! Delror'Siira! Status, now!"

Her cover was blown and she scrambled over its surface to escape another swipe of the brute's claws.

"Fuck! Shit! Shit! Fuck!" Every curse was a squeeze of the pistol's trigger.

She popped the heat-sink—it fizzled into the mud. She fumbled with another, reloaded successfully.

A shriek pierced the air, cut the rain, and by that point, the proud N7 was nearly ready to drop her pistol.

'No' is the only word that came to mind. No colorful array of curses, no tears or gasps or screams of terror or frustration—just "no."

The sky and terrain are dark. Rain beat mercilessly on the muddy ground and everything that sloshed through it. Greys, blues, blacks, dusky browns mingle in the air—sometimes the world seemed a little green. It was eerie, that the air could look green like that, as though a child had dropped food coloring into it, or had colored it gleefully with paints.

A spray of purple was added to that landscape. Such a purple as an electric crack of lightning running through the sky, punctuated not by thunder, but by a blood-freezing, ear-splitting shriek. Only clichés ever came to mind in describing them, but never had the reason for the phrases' existence ever been so mind-numbingly _true_.

Just seeing that streak of purple in Carmine's already hellish battlefield made it all feel like the end of the goddamn world.

As close as it had gotten yet.

The banshee moved faster than she could through the mud-slicked terrain. She was probably imagining the ability to feel the icy chill of the thing's fingers through her armor as they wrapped around her waist and lifted her as easily as Carmine hefted her rifle—a rifle she was now sorely missing as she faced empty sockets and a gaping maw—into which she emptied her entire clip. Ragged holes ripped into the flesh—she could look straight through its shrieking mouth clean to the other side, had there been anything on the other side worth seeing.

It snarled, brought up the other hand, and plunged it into her chest.

It pierced her armor, her under-suit, her skin, her muscle, her bone, her stomach, her muscle, her spine, her under-suit, her armor.

She spluttered. It screamed.

**[Team Quarters - Compound, Location Classified; 0510 hours]**

Carmine was screaming when Nora put a hand on her shoulder. She gasped, clenched her fingers around the edge of Nora's fatigues—_green, like the air_—and closed her eyes, pressing her forehead into the adept's thigh.

"_Maker_," she whispered.

"What is that?" Nora asked, letting her hand continue to rest on Carmine's shoulder.

"Just… a religious sentiment from my childhood." The engineer sighed; she sat up, then groaned. "Who else did I wake up?" She tried a smile. "Is my tough-guy persona totally ruined?"

She did not take the bait, her face still a picture of concern, intense. "Irretrievably."

That got Carmine laughing. "Thanks for putting it to me gently."

The adept still didn't crack a smile. "You didn't let me finish—it's only unsalvageable because you never had one to begin with."

"Low blow, Nora."

She chuckled. "Most of them were already up—Victron was checking the messages, Delror and Ardel were busy with breakfast, I'm not sure _when_ Al-Zeran actually sleeps, and Simon and Bronte are on watch. You didn't disturb M. since she's only been off the watch shortly, and you didn't wake Sif, either—but that might have something to do with the extra dose of sedative I gave her after the second surgery last night. Tamara was meditating; you can't disturb that if you tried. Now, Mark, Tenison, and I _were _disturbed, but we'll get over it, I think."

Carmine shook her head. "Second surgery?"

She shrugged. "Idiot re-opened what I repaired. She'll be out for at least two weeks."

The engineer groaned.

"And I haven't told her yet."

"She'll drive us all insane—you know that, don't you."

"There's nothing I can do about that."

Carmine shook her head, divesting herself of the blankets to sit beside Nora, legs dangling over the edge, well above the floor. Bronte's unoccupied bunk was below hers. Nora patted her shoulder with a soft smile. She slid to the floor when she received an answering nod.

"Hey, can Sif eat real food?"

"Not for a couple days—why?"

Carmine shrugged and Nora continued out of the room. The engineer shook out her undershirt and pants as best she could, and retrieved the button—down of her fatigues from her locker; they all slept ready to jump up at any moment. There was a war on, after all, not much time left over for clean clothes every day. Fresh fatigues every two to three days—not dire straits yet, but even wrinkle-resistant fabrics never lay right after you slept in them. Her fatigues were the Marines' army green, just like Nora's; the pair had earned their N7's together, too, not that they liked to reminisce about it.

She entered the makeshift kitchen area just in time to see Mark bound in from the armory—a man that tall shouldn't bound anywhere, and if the darkly amused grin creeping across his lips was any indication, the news was not good.

"Reinforcements!" was the triumphant announcement.

Ardel and Delror were already seated at the table, finishing their rations.

"Oh, gods."

"If it's a krogan, I'll space Simon on the next run," the quarian promised.

"Are you sure?" Carmine asked the soldier. "We're only down one temporarily."

"Oh, yes. I saw the message myself, straight from Admiral Hackett." He was practically rolling on the balls of his feet like a kid at Christmas, damn him.

"Well?" they demanded.

"Victron said to wait so we don't have to repeat, and I agree with him."

"You did that on purpose," muttered Delror.

"Of course he did." Yet Ardel looked amused—that sort of humor was right up his alley, the sick bastard.

Carmine folded her arms. "Then I suggest we get everyone in here who isn't asleep or on watch, and I will personally relate the message to everyone not present so you and Victron will have nothing to worry about."

"Relax, Rogers—I'd be more than happy to repeat the news as many times as necessary."

Ardel finished his rations. Carmine shifted her weight.

"Well?"

He grinned. "Y'all are easy."

"Mark!"

"Not even good sport. Ok—three FNGs. One quarian, one human, one volus."

"You realize they're not really FNGs if they've seen battle already," Carmine said.

He shrugged. "They are to us."

"Who is it?" Delror asked. "The quarian—another marine?"

"Don't think so—she was listed as an infiltration specialist, recommended by an Admiral Xen, I think."

"Oh, keelah—one of _hers? _We couldn't get a proper marine?"

"What's your issue with this admiral?" asked Ardel.

"She's… a scientist; studies the Geth. Rumor is she does more with her experiments than she should, but she does produce good anti-synthetic weapons and upgrades. People loyal to her might be more than you bargained for—going out to get technology… questionable stuff. Never know what _they're_ up to—but you can always trust a marine."

A smile tugged at Carmine's lips. "Hoo-rah."

"What of the human and the volus?" Ardel moved to lean against one of the cabinets.

"Human is an N7 vanguard, since we've got a soldier down—Lenni Cox; can't say I've met 'em. The volus was sent by Aria, so a mercenary or pirate, I guess. She thought we could use another ship and electronics expert. Sentinel training, as far as I could tell."

Delror shook his head. "Between Simon, Carmine, and I, we keep things running well."

"What, you want to send him back?"

"No—no. I'm just—"

Mark smirked. "Saying we could use husk bait?"

They couldn't see his face, but all were quite sure that particular posture and cock of the head radiated distaste. "Now that's just rude."

"Yeah… but kind of amusing."

"No, Antony—it really wasn't."

He arched an eyebrow. "What's eating you, Rogers?"

She ignored him. "More importantly, we barely have room now—how can we find space for three more?"

The door to the armory swung open. "I told you to wait, Sergeant."

He shrugged. "They were persuasive."

The turian narrowed his eyes with a displeased hum. "We are due to relocate within the week—the reinforcements will meet us at the new location."

"Excellent!" The sentiment was quietly reciprocated among them.

"Don't expect anything cozy. We're going to an ice planet."


End file.
